


The Poker Game And Associated Side-Effects

by orphan_account



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Gen, disaster ensues, literal intoxication, the deities play poker, this got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all the Windsinger's fault. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poker Game And Associated Side-Effects

Later on, when asked by nervous exalts just what exactly had happened, nine out of the eleven deities would blame the Windsinger.  
  
The Windsinger blamed the Flamecaller and the Icewarden.  
  
The Earthshaker let them make up their own minds.

* * *

As all good stories do, this one starts at the Wyrmwound, where bubbles of rot slowly float to the surface of a red lake, maintained by the Plaguebringer and her exalts. See, exalting in the Scarred Wasteland operates somewhat strangely - to a non-Plague dragon. Exalts are pushed into the lake and never resurface. They never need to, not when it’s a known fact the Plaguebringer in all her glory resides at the bottom - if there is a bottom - of the lake.  
  
In any case, one particularly dull day saw the seafoam scales of the Windsinger glimmering above the lake, lost for ideas. Visiting the Plaguebringer was all good and well, but how was he meant to reach her? Plunging into a lake teeming with bacteria that was also the exalt pool - well, diving in was fine, but it was considered spectacularly rude to just interrupt someone’s exalts.  
  
Thankfully, his dilemma was solved when the Plaguebringer surfaced, scattering waves across the water (was it water?) She was accompanied by an entourage - a Plague Sprite on her skull, a tiny Fae exalt with golden eyes fluttering next to her. The Windsinger idly observed that the Light Fae had taken on the role of - Scribbles, was it? - for the Plaguebringer.  
  
“What brings you here today?” the Plaguebringer asked, the sound a rattle in the still air. The Windsinger considered the question.

“Adventure, as always,” he replied. “What else?”

A single bubble rose to the surface and popped, releasing brown miasma over the lake. “You care too little.”  
  
“No, I believe my exalts can figure out what to do on their own,” the Windsinger said lightly. “How is your day?”  
  
“It used to be better,” the Plaguebringer said flatly. “Why are you here?”  
  
“I told you. Adventure.”

“No, not here.” The Plaguebringer made a gesture that encompassed her lands. “Why be in my realm? Why not the Earthshaker’s, or the Lightweaver’s, or the Arcanist’s, or even my hopeless sister’s? Why mine, specifically?”

That was a good question. The Windsinger considered it, performed a loop-de-loop, and considered it again. “Well, you’re one of the closest. To my lands. And there are only so many places I can be in at once, to see you all. Hey,” he suddenly said. “We should have a get-together sometime.”

“No.” The Plaguebringer shot down his idea before he could even try. “Absolutely not. Do you realise how much of a disaster that would be?”

Well, yes, there was an incredibly potential for that. Also possibly the fourth (?) apocalypse, one that hadn’t been started by the Arcanist this time. “I bet Gladekeeper would go for it,” he said. “I mean, she’d probably spend the entire time complaining about you, especially when you’re not around to defend yourself…” He trailed off and stared at her meaningfully.

“Oh for - you’re actually serious,” the Plaguebringer said in horror. “Fine. You get my despicable sister to join, and I will go.”

* * *

“My abhorrent sister is going to a deity get-together,” the Gladekeeper said. “You’re not kidding.”

“Nope,” the Windsinger said cheerfully.

“And you thought of this on a whim.”

“Yep.”

A Nature Sprite glared at him. The Gladekeeper looked like she was going to try hit her head on a tree any minute. “Do you even have plans for this thing?”

“Plans are needed?”

An ash tree splintered. Several Nature Sprites were now glaring at him. “Well, yes, you need plans. When are you going to hold this… deity get-together? Where are you going to hold this thing? And how are you going to drag the Stormcatcher away? Or the Arcanist? Or even -”

“I’ll think of something,” the Windsinger said hastily. “Uh, sometime after Trickmurk Circus. At Dragonhome. Yes.”

“Why.”

“Well, none of you are going to go around your festivals, plus the Earthshaker doesn’t leave so we kind of have to have it there -”

“My sister is going,” the Gladekeeper said.

“Yes. I already told you -”

“Give me one of your blasted Messenger Scrolls when you set it all up and I’ll go.”

“What - oh, awesome! Wait, what’s wrong with the scrolls?”

“THEY’RE MADE OF TREES, YOU CRAZY HYPERACTIVE SEAFOAM - _NOODLE_!”

The Windsinger fled the Viridian Forest

* * *

Where to go next? That was two out of ten - well, three, considering how the Earthshaker was definitely going to agree. Well, the Tangled Wood was closest…

The Windsinger was regretting the choice after he flew into the fifth yew tree. How had they been planted? Who planted trees in such a way that it was impossible to fly without hitting one? Gladekeeper would have a heart attack. He would go higher, but the Shadowbinder had made very certain flying over her domain was going to reveal nothing but inky blackness.

The Windsinger finally tracked down a Murktooth Bramblekeep, heading back towards the Shadowbinder. He followed and was smacked in the face with a pine branch for his trouble.

This part was definitely the bad part of adventure.

“What do you want?” The Shadowbinder’s voice sounded all around him. He would have yelped if he hadn’t been expecting it. “I’m surprised, Windsinger. You don’t come down from the skies that often...not to this low, anyway.”

“Oh, I came to invite you to a deity get-together. Lightweaver is going.” Best to get the shocking news out first, he decided. There was a stunned silence for a full five minutes, and the Windsinger savoured the feel of besting the Shadowbinder at her own game.

She emerged nearly directly in front of the Windsinger, dark purple eyes staring into his own. “What?”

“You’re not often lost for words,” he said, just for the fun of it. “Deity get-together. Your sister is going. Are you?”

“Lightweaver is going to a deity get-together? Of course I’m going! Where? When?” the Shadowbinder demanded.

The Windsinger shrugged. “A week after Trickmurk, at Dragonhome.”

“Not much time to unravel from the festivities,” the Shadowbinder grumbled. “Okay. I’ll be there.” She turned around, vanishing into her shadows.

“I’ll see you there!” the Windsinger shouted after her.

* * *

The Lightweaver was resting on her tower, the Beacon of the Radiant Eye. “Hullo,” she called up as the Windsinger descended. A Light Sprite by her side flew off, herding away the eavesdroppers for an illusion of privacy.

(The Windsinger knew all too well that sound carried from the Eye. Anyone below could hear what was happening above - and there were _plenty_ of exalts gathered at the bottom of the tower.”

“Wanna go to a deity get-together after Trickmurk at Dragonhome?” he asked.

The Lightweaver blinked, one of the few times the Windsinger had ever seen her truly startled. But at least her question was more like her. “How are you going to persuade everyone?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the Windsinger said airily. “Plaguebringer and Gladekeeper are already going, Earthshaker, obviously, and Shadowbinder too. And convincing the others won’t be hard. So are you going?”

The Lightweaver stared at him. “Well, if you’re so confident. There’s not much to do until my Brightshine Jubilee anyway. I’ll go.”

“Cool! It’s a week after Trickmurk, count down the days,” the Windsinger said. Five down, five to go.

* * *

He considered the five left to go. Tidelord, Flamecaller, Stormcatcher, Icewarden, Arcanist. The Tidelord and the Flamecaller he shouldn’t have any problems with, except maybe navigating the Ashfall Waste. It seemed to change every time he visited. The Icewarden, possibly some trouble. And it was _c-o-l-d_ down there.

The Stormcatcher and the Arcanist, on the other hand… well, dragging the Stormcatcher away from work was - was it even possible? He worked on his own festival, never mind others’. There was that one Mistral Jamboree when he had - nope. The Windsinger refused to think of The Incident.

As for the Arcanist, something pretty serious would have to happen before he would budge from that telescope. Or for one of his Arcane Sprites to look up from their books. What were they reading?

Tidelord first, then Flamecaller and Icewarden, the Windsinger decided. After that...maybe he could flip heads or tails. Or perhaps just float and see where one of his breezes would lead.

* * *

The Windsinger slid to a stop on the flats, scattering fish everywhere as he stopped before the sea. Apparently he’d managed to completely forget that the Tidelord lived underwater. Oops.

Although, really, the Spiral Keep was a lost cause for architecture. It wasn’t that it was bad, it was that there wasn't an _inch_ of colour on the entire thing - minus the seaweeds, which the Windsinger wasn’t inclined to count as colour.

He took off, flying until he estimated that the Spiral Keep was somewhere directly below him, took a deep breath, and dived.

Too. Much. Water.

After what seemed like several eternities, the murky outline of the Spiral Keep began appearing. Well, the Keep itself wasn’t appearing. That was his wishful thinking. The only clue the Windsinger had that he was in the right direction were the exalts, scattering and...chasing bubbles...from a single point of origin.

Water. Bubbles. Water. Bubbles. More water. Oh, this was just wonderful. Not.

More exalts, chasing more bubbles. Water. Exalts. Bubbles. Water. Exalts. Bubbles. Water, exalts, bubbles - and the actual outline of the keep. The Windsinger was so thankful to see it that, if it had been the Shade who’d led him there, he might have thanked it. Might. Probably not. But maybe.

Just as he was about to call out, a million bubbles spewed into his face. “Oh, thanks,” he tried to say, except there were exalts racing up to him in an attempt to catch the bubbles and - did the Tidelord really not have any better alternatives? Couldn’t he whisper his prophecies to some magic fish? The Windsinger sighed as the exalts raced around him, carefully removing the bubbles that were trapped in his scales. One of them burbled a cheerful thank-you and sped off.

The Tidelord himself was busy meditating, an occasional stream of bubbles escaping and sending the exalts into a frenzy. “Hey, watery guy,” the Windsinger said. “Wanna ditch your prophecies and go to a deity get-together?”

No response. The Windsinger considered the wisdom of blasting wind magic into the Tidelord’s face. Eh, whatever. Just before he could, the Tidelord snapped out a short, “No.”

“Why not?” the Windsinger asked. “Don’t say you’ve got anything better to do. This is not a better thing to do.”

“It is.”

“No it isn’t,” he promptly replied. “And if you don’t go, I’ll – I’ll blow down the Keep.” He wasn’t sure if that was even possible, but with the Keep already under such pressure – the Arcanist would probably know. Maybe the Windsinger should ask him.

The Tidelord cracked open an eye. Finally. Progress. “Where?”

“Dragonhome, since Pebbles is kind of just there for eternity. It’s on the week after Trickmurk. You won’t even have to miss out on preparations for your thing. The Wavecrest Saturnalia.”

“Hmm.”

“Everyone else will be there. We’ll all be laughing at you if you don’t show up.”

“I’ll be the one laughing at you when it all goes wrong.”

The Windsinger rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but we get to party and you don’t. I’ll see you there!” Without waiting for a further reply, he turned and left the Spiral Keep. A cloud of bubbles followed him, but the Windsinger navigated past the exalt-rush and back into open air, the water sliding off his scales as he ascended.

“To the Ashfall Waste!”

* * *

He’d barely touched down before the Flamecaller had said, “I hope you’ve at least warned Earthshaker.”

“Why? He’s not exactly going to be against this idea, you know. Plus, how did you know about this?”

“Oh, a Light Sprite came over and told me,” the Flamecaller replied. “And even if he’s not going to be against the idea, you should at least tell him. In case ten deities just dropping out of the sky and landing in front of him shouting ‘Party!’ – which _you_ will probably do, knowing you – gives him a heart attack or something.” She paused to shoot out a jet of flame towards the forge. “Yes, fine, I’ll go.”

“I thought you’d have needed more persuasion,” the Windsinger said. “But awesome! Okay, do you have anything warm for me to wear while I go see the Icewarden? I mean, seriously, that place is cold.”

“Try the Frigid Fugitive Shackles,” the Flamecaller said dryly. “They’ll be even cooler.” She whistled over two Fire Sprites. “They’ll accompany you so you don’t freeze. Even though, you know, you can’t.”

The Windsinger ducked his head, and the Fire Sprites fluttered on. They left a comfortable heat spreading at the base of his head. “Thanks, Flamecaller,” he said. “I’ll see you there!”

“Tell the Icewarden if he pulls out some ice-covered whip or something for the Gala I will smack him in the face!” was her reply. The Windsinger really hoped that hadn’t been what the Icewarden was going to introduce.

If it was, he was going to have to seriously consider asking some Ice dragons in his realm just _what_ the Southern Icefield’s inhabitants did in their spare time.

* * *

“You want me to go to a deity get-together after Trickmurk at Dragonhome, a place about as far away from the Icefield as possible,” the Icewarden said. “You’re mad.”

“Does that mean you’re going?” the Windsinger asked.

“It most certainly does not,” he replied. “Who else is going?”

“Oh, well, Earthshaker obviously, and Plaguebringer and Shadowbinder and Lightweaver and Gladekeeper and me – duh – and –”

“I get it, everybody’s going,” the Icewarden interrupted. “Why after Trickmurk?”

“Well, the rest of you would never even consider possibly missing a single day of your festival preparations, unlike me, who has the greatest festival of them all, so –”

“Your logic,” the Icewarden muttered, “is terrible. Clearly the Crystalline Gala is the best.”

“Yeah, but its cold,” the Windsinger argued. “Oh, and the Flamecaller wants to tell you that if you send out some ice-covered whips or something for the Gala next time she wants to melt your place down.”

The Icewarden glowered at him. “You go and tell her that if her silly festival comes up with more metalworking tools that’ll be what happens to _her_.”

“Yeah, but you can tell her yourself at the get-together,” the Windsinger said cheerfully. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Oh, whatever,” the Icewarden grumbled as the Windsinger launched himself into the air. “I’ll be there _just_ to tell Flamecaller I can do what I want. Then I’m leaving.”

“You’re still going, though!” the Windsinger called back, before he flew out of range for whatever the Icewarden’s reply was to reach him.

* * *

He dropped the Fire Sprites off over the Ashfall Waste, the duo fluttering off and down back to their fiery home. In the distance, the Tempest Spire rose into the sky. “Stormcatcher first, then,” the Windsinger said. “This’ll be absolutely _lovely_.”

Lightning exploded from the peak of the Spire, electricity crackling through a series of wires that powered some- _thing_. The Windsinger navigated his way through the lightning, looking for an exalt to hopefully point out which was the safest way.

“Follow me, Lord Windsinger!” one called, and the Windsinger noticed a Spiral above him twisting its way through the lightning. “Are you going to see Boss?”

“Yeah!” he called back. “Thanks!”

“No problem, Lord Windsinger!” the Spiral shouted back, curling and twisting over itself again and again to avoid the lightning bolts. The Windsinger followed suit, spinning and curving around the electricity the Stormcatcher continually sent out.

“Here you are, Lord Windsinger! Good luck! It’s an honour to meet you!” the Spiral said as they finally made it to the top. The Windsinger noticed with a start the pale green eyes of the Spiral. One of his, then, and the name floated to his mind – the only hatchling from the nest of... Arilou? Yes, her. Dewey was his name.

“Thank you, Dewey,” he said. The Spiral squeaked in surprise – and the shining silver doors leading up to the Stormcatcher opened. Another exalt bearing a ridiculously large tray of coffee and green Serthis toxin charged up the stairs, the tray wobbling dangerously. The Windsinger winked at the Spiral and followed.

“YES, WINDSINGER,” the Stormcatcher boomed. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

The Windsinger winced. His poor ears. The Stormcatcher’s voice had bounced off every wall, resonating louder and louder every time. “Can you not shout?”

“I AM NOT SHOUTING,” the Stormcatcher said. “THIS IS NORMAL.”

Clearly, living in a tower as a cackling deranged boss had damaged the Stormcatcher permanently. The Windsinger sighed. “Do you want to go to a deity get-together?”

“SPEAK LOUDER, I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” the Stormcatcher thundered. Another spike of lightning erupted from the Spire.

“I SAID, DO YOU WANT TO GO TO A DEITY GET-TOGETHER?” the Windsinger screamed.

“I AM BUSY.”

“YOU NEED TO CHILL!” The Windsinger’s voice was threatening to die on him. Already. He grimaced and drank half of the Stormcatcher’s coffee. Just _how_ had the Stormcatcher’s voice not died yet?

“WHAT IS CHILLING?”

“Oh for – okay, he doesn’t know what chilling is, clearly he hasn’t observed a single Mistral Jamboree, how do I spin this?” the Windsinger muttered to himself. He cleared his throat. “CHILLING IS AN EXTREMELY EFFICIENT FORM OF WORK. IT INVOLVES CONVINCING EVERYONE ELSE TO WORK FASTER.”

That apparently caught the Stormcatcher’s attention. “WHERE IS THIS – CHILLING?”

“AT DRAGONHOME, A WEEK AFTER TRICKMURK,” the Windsinger shouted, before being struck by inspiration. “YOU SHOULD ALSO GET ALL YOUR EMPLOYEES TO CHILL FROM NOW UNTIL THEN, TO MAXIMISE EFFICIENCY.”

“OKAY, I WILL GO AND ‘CHILL’,” the Stormcatcher said. “ALL EMPLOYEES, LISTEN CAREFULLY.” Somehow his voice was even louder. “ALL EMPLOYEES, LISTEN CAREFULLY.”

The Windsinger bolted out of Tempest Spire, but even then he could hear the Stormcatcher’s voice, echoing around the Shifting Expanse. “FROM NOW UNTIL TRICKMURK, ALL EMPLOYEES ARE TO INCREASE EFFICIENCY BY TAKING PART IN ‘CHILLING’. FROM NOW UNTIL TRICKMURK, ALL EMPLOYEES ARE TO INCREASE EFFICIENCY BY TAKING PART IN ‘CHILLING’.”

Several exalts near the edge of the Expanse gained a look of pure bafflement. “Is Bossman okay?” seemed to be the general gist of what they were saying.

The Windsinger flew out of the Expanse. Any more of Stormcatcher’s roaring, and he was going to have permanent hearing damage. Or go crazy.

* * *

The Observatory at least was much quieter, Arcane Sprites, Stardust Scholars and exalts moving quietly as the Arcanist watched through his telescope. The Windsinger landed as gently as he could. Even that earned him several glares from the Scholars. An Arcane Sprite fluttered onto the Arcanist’s shoulder. 

“Hello, Windsinger,” the Arcanist said, not turning away from his work. “The stars are lovely today, aren’t they?”

“They’re lovely every day,” the Windsinger said. “Arcanist, do you want to temporarily abandon your work?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from what seemed like everyone in the room except himself and the Arcanist. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, the rest of us are having a deity get-together the week after Trickmurk, at Dragonhome,” the Windsinger said. “Are you going to go?”

The Arcanist adjusted his telescope. Every exalt in the room grabbed a pen. “There’s a rare celestial phenomenon the week after Trickmurk,” he said.

“There’s always a rare celestial phenomenon,” the Windsinger grumbled, ignoring the sharp intake of breath (again). “Surely you can miss this one? I swear, every week – except the Starfall Celebration – there’s some kind of ‘rare celestial phenomenon’.”

Several Arcane Sprites looked as if they were considering throwing their books at him.

“The stars do not obey the whims of Sornieth,” the Arcanist replied.

“Look, even Stormcatcher is going. Stormcatcher is practically married to work. If he’s going, you really have no excuse.”

“The Stormcatcher’s work affects only himself and those in his realm,” the Arcanist countered. “My work has a wider reach than that.”

“If you don’t go I’ll Zephyr Bolt the place,” the Windsinger offered. “Then you definitely can’t watch any stars.”

Okay, now the Arcane Sprites were getting mad. But at least the Arcanist was considering it. That was a good thing, right? The Arcanist picked up a pen, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, and passed it to an Arcane Sprite who gave it to a Stardust Scholar.

“Would you?” the Arcanist asked.

“Well, no, not really,” the Windsinger admitted. “But you have to go – everyone else is going! _Please_?”

Dial adjust. Scribble. Pass back. “Hmm.”

The Windsinger very much wanted to hit something. Maybe throw a Gladekeeper and smack his head into a tree. Instead, he waited for the Arcanist to saw something other than ‘Hmm’.

“Very well,” the Arcanist finally said. “In my absence, I expect you all to take more than adequate notes for the trajectory of - ” The Windsinger tuned out the rest of it, too glad that the Arcanist was _actually going to leave the Observatory_ (and go! To the get-together!) to listen.

“The week after Trickmurk, Dragonhome, yes?” the Arcanist asked.

“Yeah! You’re awesome, I love you, now I just gotta fly off to the Earthshaker’s, bye!” the Windsinger shouted before racing down the stairs and flying off.

Somehow, miraculously, he’d gotten every single deity to agree! If that didn’t say something about his skills, nothing would. Best Persuader of All-Time, yes – absolutely!

He took a detour back home, picking up nine Messenger Scrolls and directing his Wind Sprites to drop one to every deity minus himself and the Earthshaker, with the location and place of the get-together. Then he did a lap around the Plateau, just to celebrate what he had managed to do. Several clans whooped as he passed, and he heard at least three calls of “Welcome Home, Lord Dudemeister!”

The Windsinger did another lap just for the fun of it. And then another, before he took off towards Dragonhome.

The Earthshaker was going to have an absolutely brilliant surprise.

(If he woke up, that was.)

* * *

The Pillar of the World rose up in front of him, and for an instant the Windsinger was tempted to curl up on the top and just wait until the Earthshaker noticed him. The problem with that was the Earthshaker might not notice him for a very long time. It wouldn’t be surprising.

He slid his way down the Pillar, bypassing the place where he had once slept through two apocalypses. Huh. And both had been Arcanist-caused, too.

At the very bottom was an Earthshaker-shaped lump of stone. The Windsinger sighed. If the Earthshaker had begun calcifying or whatever the process was, this was going to take a long time.

He whacked the statue with his tail and regretted it the second a sharp spike of pain hit. “Ow! What, did you turn into diamond this time?”

The stone statue shook, chips of rock flying everywhere. “Windsinger,” the Earthshaker rumbled. “It’s been a long time.”

“Won’t be so long ‘til next time,” the Windsinger said.

Brown eyes blinked. “Why?”

“Oh, we’re having a party at your place. The week after Trickmurk. Everyone – and I mean everyone, even Stormcatcher – is coming.”

The Earthshaker sat back down. “What? How?”

The Windsinger grinned. “It’s a long story. Want to hear it?” He knew the Earthshaker’s answer even before he replied, and settled himself down on the ground. “Okay, so I was visiting Plaguebringer…”

* * *

There was something surreal about the actual day, after Trickmurk had come and passed and the Shadowbinder’s new acolytes were wandering around, joining every clan they could find. The Windsinger, naturally, was the first to arrive – well, second, if the Earthshaker was counted as the first ‘arrival’. But since the Earthshaker was there anyway, the Windsinger decided it didn’t count.

The Gladekeeper was second, her form appearing on the horizon long before she reached them, green shooting up from the dry earth of Dragonhome. The green wilted almost immediately, courtesy of the Plaguebringer right on Gladekeeper’s heels.

Following them was the Lightweaver and the Shadowbinder. The Stormcatcher announced his arrival with a sudden thunderstorm. One minute the Arcanist wasn’t there, and the next, he was. The Icewarden was preceded by a long pathway of, well, ice. Finally, the Tidelord and the Flamecaller, one soaking the earth of Dragonhome, the other drying it up barely a second later.

The Windsinger really hoped Earthshaker wasn’t going to cry. “Hey, bro, don’t cry,” he muttered.

The Earthshaker didn’t answer.

“So…” the Gladekeeper finally said, after they were all just standing there. “Windsinger, what exactly are we doing?”

 _That_ , the Windsinger hadn’t thought of. “Uh...cards?” he offered, producing a pack that was always on him. Cards were always useful for defusing dangerous situations.

“Poker,” the Flamecaller suggested, grinning wickedly.

The Icewarden snorted. “You say that like you might even win,” he drawled.

“Oh, that’s it,” the Flamecaller said. “We’re playing poker. And you’re going down, icepop.”

“You wish,” the Icewarden said. “We’ll see who loses after this.”

They both glared at each other, downright murderously. The Tidelord cleared his throat. “Okay, we’re playing poker. What stakes?”

“Shots,” the Shadowbinder promptly declared, producing – well, more blue Serthis poison than the Windsinger had even known existed. “All the losers take shots.”

Well, Serthis poison couldn’t exactly harm any of them (except maybe the Arcanist, who could probably be blown over by a gust of wind – ha, wind) and it was probably more harmless compared to – oh, letting the Flamecaller and Icewarden wrestle each other into submission. Or something. The Lightweaver sniffed one of the bottles. “Seems okay,” she offered.

“I can’t believe we’re playing poker with shots of poison as the losers’ reward,” the Plaguebringer said. “This was not what I expected.”

“Oh, who cares what you expected,” the Gladekeeper said. “Earthshaker, care to deal?”

The Earthshaker shook himself out of a daze. “Yes, of course.” Around them, the earth shifted, breaking and reforming until a table was in the very centre. The Earthshaker picked up the pack of cards.

After five rounds, the Windsinger realised that it was not a good idea to play cards when the Arcanist could warp reality.

“That was my five of spades!” he shrieked. “Cheater!”

“Well, nobody said it had to be played _normally_ ,” the Arcanist objected. “According to the non-existent rules, this is a perfectly valid form of play.”

“YOU MEAN YOU STOLE MY KING OF HEARTS?” the Shadowbinder screeched, launching herself at the Arcanist and scattering cards everywhere. The Windsinger backed away. Everyone else, who were all clearly insane, watched avidly as the two of them screamed at each other.

The Tidelord finally broke it up by dousing the both of them. “Okay, new rules, nobody is allowed to use their powers to influence the game.”

“Shouldn’t he have to take all the shots we did?” the Gladekeeper complained.

“NO, IT WAS OUR FAULT WE WERE NOT DILIGENT ENOUGH,” the Stormcatcher boomed. The Earthshaker, who was next to him, winced at the noise.

The Arcanist looked like he wasn’t sure to be glad to get support, or be horrified that his support was coming from the _Stormcatcher_. The game restarted.

Sometime between Earthshaker finally winning his first hand and Lightweaver winning her eighteenth, the Serthis poison ran out. The Shadowbinder produced Serthis toxin instead.

But since poison and toxin would only give them hallucinatory effects and hampered judgement at its very worst, none of them protested. By the time the toxin ran out as well, the Windsinger was feeling decidedly light-headed. He wasn’t the only one – every time the Earthshaker dealt the cards, the Gladekeeper would giggle hysterically, the Arcanist would stare into space, and the Shadowbinder would frown. The Stormcatcher already looked as if he was deep into la-la land. Maybe he was dreaming of work.

“Do we stop this poker game now, or do we go on with something else?” the Earthshaker asked.

“We keep going,” the Tidelord said, before anyone (who was coherent) could say anything. “I _need_ to win my first game.”

The Windsinger barely stifled his snicker. For an oracle, the Tidelord was not doing very well in poker. _At all_

“What stakes do we go on?” the Lightweaver – the only one of them even vaguely coherent-looking – asked.

“Fifteen random dragons from our realms,” the Flamecaller declared. “Whoever wins gets a dragon from everyone. Of course, that means the dragon will end up travelling a lot on its journey. And after the first round, whoever won can give one of the dragons they won to the next winner. Anyone who only has two dragons is out.”

“Eleven of us here, fifteen dragons each… first to ninety?” the Arcanist suggested.

And so began what was definitely one of the craziest things the Windsinger had ever witnessed. Including _the beginning of the world_. Fifteen random dragons from each land, miniature figurines of them appearing on the table. Anyone who lost fifteen times in a row was out.

Didn’t bode too well for the Tidelord, then.

The first winner was the Flamecaller, who smiled very triumphantly at the Icewarden. The Windsinger pushed over a Ridgeback from his lands too adept with metal to belong anywhere else.

The Shadowbinder won the second round. The Earthshaker, the third. Then himself, the fourth round.

The fifth round went to the Arcanist. The Windsinger examined his dragons and offered a Wind with a passion for studying.

To everybody’s surprise, the sixth round went to the Tidelord. There was a crazed look in his eyes as he scooped up the dragons. The Windsinger gave him back one of his own. At least now everybody had won a game. And maybe the Tidelord wouldn’t look absolutely insane.

The Lightweaver took the seventh, eighth and ninth rounds. The Stormcatcher, the tenth. The eleventh round went to Plaguebringer, the twelfth to Gladekeeper, and the thirteenth to the Icewarden – just in time. Well, the Lightweaver was definitely winning. There was an alarmingly large collection of statues next to her.

From then on, the poker game went absolutely berserk.

Gladekeeper nearly upended the table when the Plaguebringer won again. Then the Windsinger replenished his statue collection by winning, but had to dodge a lightning bolt. The Stormcatcher won, the Earthshaker won, the Lightweaver won, and tantrums were thrown. There was definitely more than one elemental magic fired.

Then the Icewarden won, and oh did Flamecaller _erupt_.

Pretty soon they were all dodging blasts of fire and ice as the Icewarden and Flamecaller took potshots at each other. The Windsinger took off into the air, staying high enough to avoid all the elemental magic flying around. Then a stray lightning bolt clipped him on the side, and he turned to stare at Stormcatcher, who was literally radiating a halo of lightning.

It was finally ended – the battle between Flamecaller and Icewarden, that was – when the Earthshaker intervened. And – out of all things – they returned to playing poker. The Windsinger would have been happy to fly as far away as he possibly could. And maybe never look back. There was apparently a _reason_ family get-togethers did not happen, end of story.

Dragons changed hands nearly the second the Earthshaker finished dealing. The Tidelord was first to hit two, having won a grand total of two games of poker. He was followed by the Gladekeeper five games later.

The last three standing were the Flamecaller, the Icewarden and – out of all deities – the Arcanist, each with an impressive collection. But none of them were at ninety.

Games were won and lost at an absolutely terrifying rate. The Windsinger flew as far up as he could while still being able to see the table. He noticed that everyone else – very wisely – had also backed away, or flew up, as far as they could without being unable to see the table.

Though the Windsinger guessed that even if he couldn’t see the table, he would still be able to guess who won by the fight that would come immediately after.

First the Arcanist’s stack declined. Then the Flamecaller’s stack declined. Then the Icewarden’s stack declined. Rinse and repeat.

“This is going to be a disaster,” the Plaguebringer called up to him. “If it’s an apocalypse kind of disaster, I blame you.”

“Seconded,” half the other deities said simultaneously. The Windsinger rolled his eyes.

“Please, if it’s an apocalypse either the Arcanist would start it, or, in this case, it is clearly the fault of both Flamecaller and Icewarden. What kind of logic would possess you to blame me?”

“The kind where I’m too terrified and interested in this game to care about logic,” the Shadowbinder said sweetly. “Also, the effects of those toxins are starting to really hit. I think. Unless you’re actually yellow?” The Windsinger groaned.

And then suddenly the Arcanist examined all his figurines and said, almost absentmindedly, “Oh, I’ve got ninety-four now.”

A pin drop could have been heard in the silence as the other two deities in the game – well, now out of the game – lunged forwards, trying to count the Arcanist’s stacks. The Arcanist himself just shrugged, placed his cards face down on the table and stood up.

“HOW DID YOU DO THIS?” the Flamecaller screeched. “HOW?”

The Icewarden didn’t even offer that nicety. He froze the entire place.

“Time to run,” Shadowbinder said, slipping away into the shadows. “Bye!”

“Fly away and never look back?” Lightweaver asked. “Earthshaker, brother, I feel so sorry for you. You have to clean up this mess. Or drive them away. Anyway, I’m going to go before everything goes even more bonkers.”

The other deities evidently agreed, if them all suddenly vanishing was any indication. And then there were six – himself, the Earthshaker, the three now screaming at each other, and the Stormcatcher, who was evidently very interested in how the three were now – oh, great.

“BY THE WAY, WINDSINGER, YOU WERE CORRECT. ‘CHILLING’ GREATLY IMPROVED EFFICIENCY. WE ARE NOW AT SIX HUNDRED PERCENT OPERATING CAPACITY. I NOW SEE WHY, AS ‘CHILLING’ ALLOWS THEM TO RELEASE NON-WORK-RELATED EMOTION VERY QUICKLY AND EFFICIENTLY.” The Windsinger just sighed. Clearly chilling had not worked at all for the Shifting Expanse. He watched in horrified fascination as the Flamecaller attempted to bite the Arcanist. Since when was the Arcanist blue?

“You know,” the Earthshaker said, “come Mistral Jamboree, you are going to have a lot of deities cursing your name. I suggest you figure out something spectacular enough to make them forget this.”

“You’re meant to be on my side,” the Windsinger complained. In front of his eyes, the Earthshaker turned from brown to a livid shade of lime. He cringed at the sight.

“Right now I’m on the side that might stop my home from being turned to rubble,” the lime-Earthshaker deadpanned. Well. He had a point.

“In that case,” he said, “I’m just going to leave and make plans for the best Mistral Jamboree you’ll ever see.” The Earthshaker gave him a nod, and the Windsinger fled.

Behind him, Dragonhome glowed with magical energies.

* * *

The effects of the three-way war became quickly apparent. The days were cold, the nights were hot, and the sleeping patterns of virtually everything became disrupted. Oh, and any clan flying from one place to another – even in the same realm – had to be very careful. The Arcanist’s influence was still present enough for a clan, even at lift off, to suddenly end up very far away. The Windsinger himself had been caught in one – flying from one end to the other of the Crescendo, he had suddenly ended up in the Starwood Strand.

Later on, when only the very oldest of Imperials could remember the chaos and when none among the exalts knew the full story, nine deities would tell them it was the fault of the Windsinger. None of them would, however, mention The Poker Game.

The Windsinger would tell his exalts it was the fault of the Flamecaller and the Icewarden. Without mentioning The Poker Game.

The Earthshaker would be the only one to ever tell his exalts about The Poker Game, and let them decide for themselves just whose fault it was. Oddly enough, the general consensus amongst Dragonhome's exalts was that it was the Arcanist’s fault.

Thanks, Arcanist.

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started out as a little bio for Malastre, my Ice imp in fire skin in a formerly Arcane clan. Then it got out of hand.  
> (can someone please explain double spacing in ao3 to me)


End file.
